Something extraordinarily bizarre has been occurring amongst the close circle of friends that my life regularly revolves around. We're going bald. Yes, this time I'll admit, there is a reasonable bias to this discourse of mine, possibly because of the quite recent discovery of the unmitigateable process on my own body. You'll accuse me of jumping the gun, crossing that line too early, and falsely accusing the innocent, but there are at least five of us that have joined this elitist balding Ivy League, and I can provide visual confirmation and a plethora of verbal statements to back up my sentiment. In coded dialogue, I present you with the balding brothers of Quenton Jocko, Wankled Rotary Engine, Blumbo Masso (OK, so he suffers less from hair loss, and more from that evil cousin of baldness, greying) you know your true identity.
What has brought this unusual but poignant topic of discussion to my otherwise serious forum on healing the world's problems? Well, this is a problem, not to mention that it is a problem the world over, it's proliferation is as swift as the double kick drum at a Slayer concert, and equally as atrocious in nature. Sure, it has not quite the gravity of the AIDS crisis in Africa, but Bono had to begin somewhere and I'll move to more pressing topics when I've conquered these evils of my own.
Am I paranoid? Am I discovering something on my head that is really a reality only inside my head? As sure as homing pigeons home (lastest research hints that they actually may follow roads, rivers, and other linear objects to guide them in their quest for their holy grail) I'm sure I'm making no premature judgment here. The hair around my crown feels thin, like a row of carrots after thinning, like the 15 year old forest after sliviculturalists have completed their tasks, like a cat in the early days of summer when it waves goodbye to its superfluous insulation. You get the picture.
As with other traumatic events I've experienced in my life, I'm going through the predicted phases one proceeds through: that of denial (symbolized by the image of a head in the sand, no doubt shedding more precious and irreplaceable hair), anger, philosophical acceptance, and finally, without any hesitation I shall enter the phase of no return, that epitome of balding Homo sapiens everywhere: the shaved head. I'm wallowing in the mud somewhere between phase one and three, contemplating my saving grace, my most redeeming feature: I'm tall and most people can't easily observe the top of my cranium (you may notice that my circle of friends becomes depleted to those only with a shorter disposition than myself, however I'll treat this problematic side effect as a separate issue).
Perhaps my main problem, is that my ever-progressing physical maturity (please don't read that the wrong way, you Freudian-slip professionals) is poorly conjugated with my lagging mental maturity: I expect my body to remain as young and youthful as my free and uninhibited attitude towards life. For those of you who share this conundrum of a problem with me, and for those individuals who are unfamiliar with its far reaching effect, I beg of you, please, in neither discussion or thought, let us not dwell any more on this topic. Let us move in a deliberate and civilized way towards that utopian phase of disgruntled acceptance, perhaps blurred with some permissible unsanctioned strains of denial also. Besides, the problem may be only inside my head, and not on top of at all. Perhaps after releasing another couple of albums, when he's in his 50's and rejuvination treatments are no longer plausible nor realistic, Bono will change his tune, and fight for our cause, even if it is only to make it popular and acceptable by joining our ever growing ranks.
NB The information contained in this post may or may not be true, I might not be going bald at all, after all, there is no professional or scientific opinion on the matter yet. Don't start looking at my head next time you see me, I'll tell you off and send you off home to mother.